


Only George

by halyc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halyc/pseuds/halyc
Summary: "George had never been one person before. He had always been two. He didn’t know how to live as George, just George, only George."A brief glimpse into learning how to live when half of you is gone.





	Only George

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of disjointed and all over the place so hopefully it makes sense. Whenever I think about the ending of harry potter I think about how hard it must have been for George, so I decided to just write about it. Probably not in character but oh well.

George hadn’t left the room for days. Maybe weeks, he couldn’t be sure. Time didn’t seem to be passing the way it had before. He wasn’t even in his own room, instead taking up residence in Ron’s. He couldn’t bear to face his room, to see Fred’s empty bed.

The funeral was the last time George had gone outside. Fred’s had been one of the last of the whole slew of Order members who had fallen during the Battle. He thought his mum arranged it that way so she could stay in denial for a little bit longer, hold on to the illusion that maybe Freddie would come back. George wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not.

Fred would have wanted his funeral to be a spectacle, with at least five different explosions. He would have wanted people to joke, to laugh. He would have wanted it to be as large and loud and technicolour as Fred himself. It hadn’t been, George knew. He didn’t remember much about Fred’s funeral, but everything he did remember was in gray. Dull, monotone, depressing, gray. George didn’t know if the sun had been shining or not, didn’t know if people had smiled or cried; he could only remember the all-consuming, overwhelming tidal wave of gray.

He hadn’t said anything. Everyone had wanted him to, he knew that, but he couldn’t. If he said words, that would mean Fred was gone. He didn’t know how to accept that. George had never been one person before. He had always been two. Fred and George. Gred and Forge. Sometimes even he and Fred weren’t sure which was which. He didn’t know how to live as George, just George, only George.

He stared, unseeing, up at the ceiling of Ron’s old room. There was an old stain up there, and a Chudley Cannons poster on the wall. George closed his eyes. If he didn’t open them, he could pretend he wasn’t in Ron’s room, alone. He could pretend Fred was just somewhere else, and that he would be back soon, a grin on his face and that mad look in his eyes that said he’d just come up with another brilliant prank.

There was a soft knock on the door, and it swung open. George’s heart thundered in his chest, hope welling up. He opened his eyes, and his heart sank as he saw his mum standing there, a drawn and tired look on his face. Hope was a cruel thing, George realized, when the only thing you hoped for was an impossibility. His mum’s face crumpled when she saw him lying there, and he slowly pulled himself to sit on the bed, doing his best to make an effort for her.

“Hi mum,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

“Oh George,” she said, heartbreak in her voice. She walked in and sat on the bed beside him. He leaned into her and closed his eyes, letting her run a hand through his hair, seemingly uncaring of the grease that had surely built up. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close to her.

“Oh George,” she repeated.

He didn’t say anything, letting his body sink against her, letting his mother carry his weight once again. The two of them sat in silence for a long moment, before she sighed.

“You and Fred,” she said, her voice wavering over Fred’s name, “always reminded me so much of my brothers.” It was something she had said before, once or twice. She didn’t like to talk about her brothers much. It still hurt her, after all these years. “They would have loved the two of you,” she continued.

“Yeah?” George asked, not sure where she was going with this, but not wanting her to stop.

“Yes,” she replied, “absolutely.”

She pushed him away, not so far that he was out of reach, but just far enough so she could look at him, her face solemn. She looked older than he remembered. George figured they all must. George didn’t want to look older. He didn’t want to look in the mirror one day and not see Freddie’s face staring back.

“They died fighting Death Eaters,” she told him. “Everyone told me how proud I should be of them, how they died like heroes.”

“Heroes, huh?” George commented, starting to see where this was going. “Just like Fred.”

“Just like,” his mother agreed, fresh tears filling her eyes, spilling out and over her cheeks. “And I was proud of them! Of course I was! But I always wished that they had been a little less heroic, just that once, so they could have come back to me.”

George felt the great pressure in his chest lessen a little, and he reached out and grabbed his mother’s hand, squeezing it tightly. He felt tears welling up in his own eyes, an answer to hers, but he forced them back. Fred wouldn’t want his tears, he told himself.

“Thanks mum,” George whispered. She nodded, and stood up then, squeezing George’s hand one more time before letting go.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she told him, “to talk, or even just to come to dinner, alright?” He nodded, and she left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

His mother was a good person, and the best mother. He understood what she had been doing, understood that she was trying to understand what he was going through, that she likely did understand, mostly, what he was going through. He understood that she had her own pain, that losing a child was the worst thing a parent could go through. He knew all this, knew it all in his head, but in his heart he also knew it wasn't the same, it couldn't be the same. George felt selfish, petty, for even thinking this, but it was true. His mother still had something to live for. George had nothing. She had lost her child, and had once lost her brothers, but George had lost half of his soul. His uncles had been lucky, George thought, dying together.

.

Percy came to the door next. Percy had been coming to the door a lot, hovering awkwardly. George could practically hear the guilt dripping off him. George imagined it, guilt like great fat drops of water rolling down Percy and plopping onto the floor, soaking it, filling the house until Percy was drowning.

As much as they gave Percy a hard time, Freddie wouldn’t have wanted Percy to feel like this. Fred had been the first one to welcome Percy back, hadn’t even hesitated, even after everything Percy had said, had done. It was just like him. Everyone said George was the more level-headed one, but George had always thought Fred had the right of things. Fred had been the shining star.

In their astronomy class, Professor Sinistra had said that the stars in the sky were already dead, that they had lived and died so long ago, that we were only now seeing their light. The Greeks, she had said, believed people could become constellations, if their gods loved them enough, if they had been heroic enough when they lived, they died. If George went outside, would Freddie be up there, a constellation of dead light? Would it hurt more if he was, or if he wasn’t?

Percy walked away from the door without knocking, just as he always did. George listened to him leave without saying anything, just as he always did.

.

Time passed, the world turned, and people slowly but surely started moving on. George didn’t know how. He was stuck, simple as that. He had left Ron’s room, had started to spend time near other people, but he couldn’t bring himself to live in the world. Everyone had started making subtle suggestions, giving advice on what he could do next, and George found himself hating them for it. Didn’t they understand that he didn’t want to do anything, go anywhere, be anything, if Fred wasn’t there leading the way?

He had started going for walks, long winding wandering things, aimless and hoping to become lost, just so he could prove to everyone that he was hopeless without Fred and maybe, just maybe, they would leave him alone. But his treacherous feet always managed to lead him back home, and George was starting to get the feeling it was time he stopped hiding out in the Burrow. He was the only one still there, just George and his parents, and all of their proverbial ghosts, and it was starting to get suffocating.

He still had Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, still had the flat he and Fred had shared, but George wasn’t sure he had it in him to go back there. That shop had been their dream. Their dream. George didn’t have any dreams of his own. He’d never had to. Fred would be so mad if George abandoned the shop. But Fred wasn’t here. Fred was gone. Fred was dead.

George stopped, in the middle of his walk. He was in a field and entirely alone, alone as far as his eyes could see. There were clouds overhead, and a wind that blew through the tall grass, making it rustle and sway. There were birds, and bugs, and the sun and the earth, but there was no Fred, and there never would be again. There was just George, this field, and the rest of the world, time ticking by for them all.

“How am I supposed to do this?” George asked, his voice soft, his words whispered into the winds. “How do I do this?”

There was no answer. George sighed, and continued walking, letting his treacherous feet take him home once again.

.

Ron was dating Hermione, and was going through Auror training alongside Harry, no surprise there. George thought it was a mistake, as he couldn’t think of a single thing worse than carrying on with this war, of fighting another day. Ginny was finishing up her final year of Hogwarts, and was playing Quidditch as much as she could. She wanted to go professional. Her and Harry were together, and they seemed happy as houses. George was doing his best to be happy for her. He didn’t know how well he was doing. Bill and Fleur were living their life of domestic bliss, Charlie was back in Romania with his dragons, and Percy was hovering awkwardly outside the door of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

The first time George had gone back, had unlocked the shop and stepped inside, he had felt as though he was suffocating, his breath quickening, his lungs tightening. He could hear Fred’s laughter reverberating around the place, could see the trace of his footsteps across the floorboards, could feel his spirit in every mote of dust, every particle of air. He’d run back outside, heaving great breaths and gagging. People had looked away from him as they hurried past. No one wanted to be pulled into someone else's problems, someone else's pain, not when they already had so much of their own.

The second time was much the same. His mum had offered to go with him, his dad too, but George didn’t want anyone else there. It was his and Fred’s place. He wasn’t ready to share it with the world again. It had been hard enough going back to their flat, packing up Fred’s things. George had moved to a smaller place, somewhere with only one room, somewhere he didn’t have to look at a closed door and know that it would never open again.

George was cleaning the shop, or at least that’s what he told himself he was doing. Cleaning the shop, getting it ready so he could open it again. That’s what he told everyone else he was doing. It made them leave him be, thinking he was being productive, moving forwards, moving on. They were wrong, though. George would never move on.

George glanced over at Percy out of the corner of his eye, watched him wringing his hands, gathering up the courage to knock. George sighed, and slowly made his way over to the door, wrenching it open and staring out a Percy with a raised eyebrow.

“Hello, Percy,” he greeted his brother. “Won’t you come in?”

They still hadn’t talked, he and Percy. George hadn’t realized how much this new, post-war Percy liked to avoid confrontation. George hadn’t realized how much this new, post-war George liked to do the same. It was an alarming thought, that he was similar to Percy. Freddie was surely rolling in his grave.

George’s heart stopped as he thought that, and his hands shook. How casually he had thought of Fred’s grave. As though it were commonplace. As though he had accepted it. He shoved that aside, not wanting to deal with it, and forced himself to focus on Percy.

Percy’s eyes were wide behind his glasses, shining and wet and full of hope and guilt. George sighed and stepped back from the door slightly, gesturing half-heartedly for Percy to step inside. Percy took a deep breath, clearing screwing up his nerve, and did so. George wanted to roll his eyes. He shut the door behind Percy and waved his wand lazily, transfiguring a few empty, dusty display tables into chairs so they could sit. Percy perched on his chair, tension in every line of his body. George sat down as well, doing his best to appear nonchalant. He was likely failing.

You’re a bloody Gryffindor, a voice in George’s head that sounded a lot like Fred's admonished. Show some spine and talk to your brother.

“What brings you here?” George asked, voice flat.

Percy was quiet for a moment before straightening his spine and looking George dead in the eyes. Percy was a Gryffindor too, George remembered.

“I never-” Percy started before pausing and drawing a deep breath, centering himself before speaking again. “I never apologized. To you. About…” he trailed off as George began shaking his head.

“Don’t do this,” George said, tired. There was something twisting in his stomach as Percy spoke, and it made George feel sick. If Percy just stopped talking, the twisting would go away, and George wouldn’t have to think about it.

“George, I’m so sorry,” Percy continued, ignoring George. “He was - he was right next to me. I wasn’t - I should have - I didn’t - I couldn’t -” He stopped talking and looked at George helplessly, the guilt in his eyes reflecting the guilt that was consuming his soul.

The twisting in George’s gut continued, worse than before, travelling upwards into his heart, wrenching it this way and that, making his blood start to boil. George wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t want this. Percy wanted this, Percy needed this, not George. George didn’t want to take on Percy’s guilt, didn’t want to absolve him of it either. He wasn’t Fred, as much as everyone wished he was, and he didn’t want to hear apologies meant for Fred. He kept his mouth shut though, and didn’t say anything, the twisting traveling further up and into his lungs, his throat. Sometimes, he tried to remind himself, sometimes being family meant taking on things you didn’t want to. Sometimes it meant forgiving your siblings when you don’t want to. He couldn’t remember why that was though. The twisting deepened. It felt like a knife.

“It should have been me!” Percy burst out with a gasp, tears starting to stream down his face. “I didn’t protect him, I couldn’t save him, it should have been me, it should have been me!”

Percy started to sob in earnest then, his head dropping into his hands, his shoulders shaking with great wracking sobs that tore through his entire body. George didn’t know what to do, what to say. How could he offer Percy comfort when he had thought the same thing before, in some of his most shameful moments, laying there in the dark and wishing he had lost a different brother? How could George tell Percy not to say that when it was all George wanted some days?

When had George become a monster?

The knife twisted again, deeper, sharper. He and Fred used to love picking on Percy, needling him, making him angry, watching his face go red, so red that it was strange steam didn’t come right out of his ears. If Percy’s anger was funny, his grief certainly wasn’t. His face was just as red, but George couldn’t for the life of him remember why he had ever laughed at that.

“Percy,” George said slowly, searching for something to say. What would Fred have said? George didn’t know, in that moment. Maybe he would have made a joke. Maybe he would have been sincere. George would never know.

“Don’t apologize,” George tried helplessly, shoving the twisting down. Percy shook his head rapidly, looking up at George with wild eyes. George cursed himself internally at having made it worse.

“How can you say that?” Percy wailed. “Of course I should apologize!”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” George said quietly, meeting Percy’s distraught gaze head on. “What do you want from me, Perce?”

Percy frowned. “I don’t-”

“Don’t say you don’t want anything,” George snapped, the twisting and boiling blood rushing up like a tidal wave. “You clearly want something from me! So what is it? Do you want me to forgive you? Is that it?”

Percy gaped, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. He looked like a fish, George thought, gormless and bewildered. George felt as though he was drifting away, as though his body and his voice were acting on their own as George himself started to float off.

“Fine!” he snapped, his voice foreign to his own ears in its anger and harshness. “Fine! I forgive you! Is that what you wanted to hear? You’ve been officially absolved of your guilt over Fred! Congratulations Perce, now you can move on!”

George was shouting. He felt as though there was cotton in his ears, muting all of this. He was furious, but he could barely feel it. He hands were shaking, but he couldn’t stop it. Percy was quaking in front of him, the sobs stopped, his eyes wide, shocked.

“I didn’t…” Percy whispered. “I didn’t mean…”

He sounded so small. He looked so small, hunched over, trembling slightly. This is your brother, the voice in George’s head reminded him. George felt the wind go out of his sails, felt the anger evaporate, felt the twisting stop, and just felt tired instead. He turned away.

“Just go away,” George said. “Just leave me alone.”

He didn’t turn back around until long after he had heard Percy’s footsteps leading him outside, the door slamming shut behind him. He stood alone, in the dusty shop that had once been the pride of him and Fred, and felt more alone than ever.

.

It had been a year. George hadn’t left his place the entire day, had ignored the floo calls from his family, ignored everything and stayed in bed. He could hear the celebrations going on outside and he felt sick. How could these people celebrate on the anniversary of the worst day of George’s life?

George hadn’t spoken with Percy since their fight. His mum hadn’t been happy with him about that, but his dad had told her to leave him be. He had put his hand on George’s shoulder and squeezed, and hadn’t said anything about it, which George appreciated.

George pulled his covers over his head and closed his eyes. If he fell asleep, he hoped he wouldn’t wake up.

The tell-tale sound of apparition reverberated through his room startling George and sending him rocketing up into a seated position. George looked around wildly only to see Lee and Angelina standing in front of him, glancing around the room with tight expressions. When their gazes landed on George, he could see their hearts break. The two of them glanced at each other before simultaneously crawling into bed beside him, laying down on either side of him, and pulling him back down with him.

They lay like that for a while, and George felt miserable with guilt. He had been avoiding his friends, hadn’t wanted to see them look at him and see Fred, hadn’t wanted to be a walking talking reminder of who they had lost, hadn’t wanted them to look at him and know exactly what he was doing, how he was feeling.

“Come on,” Angelina said eventually. She had always been a woman of action, unable to sit still for too long. She was always meant to have the wind in her hair. “Lee’s got a plan, and our job was to make sure we got you involved.”

“Oh?” George asked tonelessly. He was too tired for this, too numb, too hollowed out and broken.

“Indeed,” Lee said, sitting up. “We’re going to find the dingiest, darkest, most miserable muggle pub we can and drink in Freddie’s honour until we get unceremoniously booted out, at which point we will move on to the next pub. I figure we’ll keep doing this until we’re so pissed we can’t remember a damn thing.”

George felt the ghost of a smile cross his lips. It was exactly what Fred would have wanted, exactly what he didn't get at his funeral. George took a deep breath. If it was for Fred, he would do it. He would do anything for Fred.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Freddie would probably approve of that.”

“Fred wouldn’t approve unless we broke at least six laws,” Angelina said primly, hauling herself up and off the bed, making her way over to George’s closet and rummaging through it as she looked for something for George to wear. “So get up off your arse, Georgie, because we will need all our energy to avoid getting arrested by the muggles and, ideally, the wizards too.”

Lee grinned shamelessly at George and hopped up, quickly grabbing George’s feet before George could move and yanking as hard as he could, flinging George off the bed. George landed with a thud on the ground and felt the laughter spill out of him involuntarily, before he could stop it. He clapped his hands over his mouth when he did, feeling immeasurably guilty, but Angelina walked over and gently pulled them away.

“Don’t do that,” she admonished gently, her eyes dark and warm and kind. “Don’t ever do that.”

“How can I laugh when he’s gone?” George whispered, losing himself in her gaze, guilt a weight around his heart. “How can I be happy when he isn’t here?”

“Oh Georgie,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “You have to be happy. It would break his heart if you weren't.”

“How can you say that?” George mumbled, miserable. “How can you know?”

“We know,” Lee interjected, his voice wobbling as he joined the hug, “because we knew him, and we loved him.”

“I don’t know how to do this without him,” George whispered, helpless and fragile.

“Me neither,” Angelina whispered, instantly understanding what George meant. The three of them stayed like that for a moment before pulling back and looking at each other’s tear-stained faces, bursting out into laughter. The laughter still hurt, but it wasn’t as bad, not with the two of them there with him.

“Look at us!” Lee exclaimed, brushing away the tears. “Sad sacks, all of us, and we haven’t even started drinking!”

“Why haven’t we started drinking?” Angelina asked quickly wiping her eyes on the back of her hand and rising to her feet, holding out a hand for George to grab. Lee followed suit, standing up and extending one of his own. Their hands hovered above George’s face, twin lifelines, tethers back to this world, back to life. George hesitated. He had grown so used to floating loose, adrift and lost in the sea of his grief. He could barely remember what it felt like on the shore. He looked up into their faces, open and understanding, and drew in a deep, steadying breath as he grabbed on to their hands, tight as he could, letting his friends pull him to his feet and back into the world.

Angelina reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of firewhiskey. There were no glasses, but that didn’t stop her, twisting the top off and taking a swig straight from the bottle. She passed it to Lee next, who took a long swig as well, wincing as it went down. He passed it to George, who looked at it for a moment before lifting it up.

“To Fred,” he toasted before taking a long swig of his own, relishing in the burn.

“To Fred!” Angelina and Lee cheered.

They were already tipsy by the time the three of them made it to the muggle pub they had agreed on, and Fred was surprised to see a group of familiar faces already there, waiting for them, Katie and Alicia and even Oliver Wood were there, among others, and they all cheered when they saw George, much to the obvious chagrin of the people in the pub. George felt another smile tugging at his lips. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, George thought, surrounded by friends, if he enjoyed himself. Maybe Freddie wouldn’t mind.

He drank and talked and laughed, and as they grew rowdier and rowdier, they were kicked out, heading off to the next in a large group, swaying and shouting and singing and carrying on. George felt a lightness in his chest that hadn’t been there in a year, a lightness that he hadn’t even realized he was missing.

At some point in the night, he found himself sitting next to Angelina, their hands intertwined. She lifted them up and kissed his hand. Lee leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek, Alicia laughing as she sat across from him, her arm slung over Katie’s shoulders, Oliver shouting at some sort of muggle sports game on the telly, getting all the terms wrong. George felt warm, and he glanced over at Angelina, who was looking back at him, a smile on her face. She looked happy, and a little sad, and George squeezed her hand tightly, trying to convey to her that he understood, that he felt the same, that she wasn't alone in this. She squeezed back. 

Lee crashed at his place that night, and George felt overwhelmingly grateful for Lee. They had been friends since first year, and he had been completely unintimidated by the rapport Fred and George already had, slotting into their dynamic naturally, as though he had been there all along, or as though he was just then finally taking his rightful place by their side.

As George fell asleep, he knew he’d probably regret that night in the morning, but right then, Lee snoring on his couch in the other room, the thought of Angelina’s smile in his mind, George couldn’t bring himself to care. Against all odds, against all expectations, it had been a good night.

.

It had been over a year, George thought, staring at the clean, tidy, fully-stocked Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. It was probably time. Everything was ready to re-open, every detail was accounted for and in order, and yet George couldn’t bring himself to flip the sign. He couldn’t do it.

I wasn’t meant to do this alone, he thought. This was never supposed to be just me.

He couldn’t give it up, yet he couldn’t open it again. He felt stuck. It was a terrible thing he was doing to his and Fred’s dream, but George couldn’t bring himself to do anything else. Sometimes when people are stuck in a purgatory they grow used to it. They learn to live there, with in-between lives, and they turn it into home.

“Bugger,” he cursed, scuffing his foot on the ground. It wasn’t happening. Not today. Same as it didn’t happen the last time he tried, or the time before that.

He was worried he was wearing everyone thin. Everyone else seemed to be moving on, putting the war behind them, but George didn’t know how. He still hadn’t made up with Percy, he still hadn’t gone to a single one of Ginny’s Quidditch games, he still hadn’t visited Bill and Fleur’s place, he wasn’t going to go and visit Charlie and his dragons, and he had taken to avoiding his parents because he didn’t want to deal with his mother’s worrying. The only people he saw somewhat frequently were Lee and Angelina, and even then it was only because the two of them were too stubborn to let him hide away.

George sighed and left the shop, keeping it locked up and closed. It was prime Diagon Alley real estate, and he knew if he sold it he would fetch an excellent price, but he couldn’t do that either it. He could do nothing, stuck in the in-between.

He apparated back to his flat and walked into the bathroom, staring in the mirror. He reached up to cover his missing ear with his hand, and he stared at Fred’s face staring back at him. Fred looked sadly at him, and with a little bit of reproach, too.

What are you doing? He seemed to be asking. Get off your sorry arse and do something.

“Shit!” George exclaimed, and turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at Fred, couldn't bear to look at himself. “Shit, shit shit.”

.

His dad came to visit him at the shop. He stood at the door, hovering awkwardly, a tired look on his face. He looked thinner, older. Sometimes George forgot how hard all of this must have been on his parents too. He felt selfish for forgetting.

“Hey dad,” George greeted. “It’s just about ready to open.”

His dad looked around, nodding sharply. “It looks good, George,” he replied. “When do you think you’ll re-open?”

“Soon,” George hedged, doing his best to not get into the details.

His dad fixed him with a sharp look before sighing and looking away. He scrubbed a hand over his head, and George frowned, suspicion creeping into his heart. He had a feeling he knew why his dad had stopped by, but he had to ask anyways.

“Why are you here?” He asked. “Not that it isn’t nice to see you, but…”

His dad frowned a little, a worry line creasing his forehead. “I’m here because it’s time.”

George felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. He had known that's what his dad was going to say, but he still hadn't been ready to hear it. “Time?”

“Time. To open your shop.”

George started shaking his head before his dad was even finished speaking, panic welling up inside of him, filling his lungs and his throat and cutting off his air, choking him.

“No,” he refuted, “no, it’s not ready, there are still things I have to do-”

“George,” his dad cut in. “There’s nothing else you need to do. Everything is ready. It’s time to open the shop.”

“I can’t,” George protested. He could feel his heart racing. He wasn't ready, he wasn't. He couldn't leave the in-between life he had been living. He wanted to stay stuck in his purgatory, half-dead, closer to Fred. “I’m not…”

He wasn’t what? George didn’t know He didn't have any more excuses. The shop was ready. It could be opened at any time. He couldn’t think, his mind spiraling downwards. His dad reached out and put his hand on his shoulder, his expression serious and sympathetic.

“You’re never going to be ready,” his dad told him, solemn. “It’s never going to be easy. This will hurt, no matter what. There will be no good time to do this, so you should do it now.”

George felt sick. “I can’t,” he insisted, his voice wavering. His throat was tight, and his eyes were hot. “I can’t.”

“You can,” his dad told him, voice firm, like it so rarely was.

George, much to his embarrassment, started to cry. His dad pulled him into a hug, and George buried his face into his dad’s chest, feeling like a child again, instead of the fully grown adult he was. His dad was saying something, nonsense words of comfort, but George couldn’t hear them, couldn’t process them or make sense of them. He was shaking, silent tears streaming down his face. It was a while before he pulled away, scrubbing at his face awkwardly. His dad let his hands drop from George’s shoulders with a final squeeze, his eyes soft and kind. George looked away, unable to bear that kind of gentleness.

“I can’t do this without him,” George whispered. “How am I supposed to do this without him?”

“You’re George Weasley,” his dad replied.

George frowned, looking back at his father. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His dad smiled at him, a little sad, a little heartsore. “There wasn’t a person in this world Fred believed in more than you. There wasn’t anyone he loved more than you, trusted more than you. As important as he was to you, you were to him.” His dad’s eyes seemed to blaze, and George’s heart felt like it was slowly being picked up and fitted back together, bleeding and painful but necessary.

“You’re George Weasley,” his dad continued. “And even if you don’t think you’re enough, then you should remember that Fred always did.”

George's heart stuttered in his chest. Somewhere in his sorrow he had forgotten that, had forgotten how important he had been to Fred. At some point George's memory of Fred had warped into this shining beacon, a monument instead of a person. Monuments didn't love people, couldn't love people, but Fred had loved so many people and, most of all, Fred had loved George. If Fred was George's other half, then George had always been, would always be, Fred's.

George couldn’t help it, he strode forwards and pulled his dad into another tight hug. He felt scraped raw and a little brittle, but in a good way.

“Thank you,” he whispered into his dad’s coat. “Thank you.”

The next day George flipped the closed sign over to read open, and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had a very quiet grand re-opening. It wasn't the sort of opening he would have had were Fred still there with him, but George was starting to appreciate the quieter moments. Lee was there, and Angelina, for moral support.

“I’m proud of you,” Angelina whispered to him at the end of the day, after he’d closed the shop for the night, before she headed home, hugging him tightly. 

.

Christmas was hard without Fred. He hadn’t gone the year before, much to his mother’s disappointment, but he had decided to go this year. Percy had gone too, and was studiously avoiding his gaze. Ginny kept shooting him pointed looks, but George ignored her. He already knew he needed to talk to Percy, he didn’t need Ginny to guilt him into it.

Harry looked tired. Ron even more so. George shook his head as he listened to them talk of being aurors. Hermione kept casting worried glances at Ron, and George knew she thought this was a mistake too. Ron was stubborn though, and George also thought a part of him was desperate to stick this out, to not feel like he was abandoning Harry again. George figured Harry would probably understand. Harry was pretty good at understanding when it came to Ron.

Sighing, George glanced at Percy who hurriedly looked away, his cheeks slightly pink at being caught. George rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, heading over to Percy, determinedly ignoring the way the room went silent as he did, the way everyone’s gazes immediately locked onto him.

“Percy,” George greeted. “Let’s go out back for a bit.”

Percy nodded, looking like a bobble-head. The two of them made their way outside, into the bitter cold air. The snow was deep, and neither of them were dressed for the cold, but George didn’t want to be overheard, so he led Percy out, wading into the snow and letting the chill of it soak into his feet, into his bones. Percy didn’t hesitate to follow him.

“George, I have to-” Percy started, his eyes huge and anxious. George cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. He had to do this, had to start this, while he had his nerve up.

“Let me go first,” he said, and Percy nodded vigorously again, this time looking like a chicken, or pigeon. The corner of George’s mouth twitched up at the sight. Fred would have loved to see that. He would have thought it was hilarious. George ran his hand through his hair and tried to gather his thoughts, tried to come up with the right words to convey what he wanted to say.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he began. “Probably shouldn’t have done that. But I meant what I said. I don’t want you to apologize.”

Percy frowned, but didn’t say anything, which George appreciated. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to give himself something of a barrier, even as he was baring his soul. It was a painful thing, vulnerability.

“I don’t wish you were dead,” George continued. “I don’t wish you had died instead of Fred. I wish Fred wasn’t gone, but I don’t wish you had taken his place.”

“I wish I had,” Percy whispered mournfully, unable to keep the words from slipping past his lips. He looked miserable.

“I won’t lie to you,” George replied, choosing honesty, no matter how painful. “I wished it too at first. But I was wrong to do so. You’re my brother Perce, no matter what. I don’t want to lose any more brothers.”

Tears were welling up in Percy’s eyes, and he looked away, down at the ground.

“How can you say that, after what I did? I didn’t, I don’t...I don’t deserve this. I don’t.”

George reached out and placed his hand on Percy’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly, making Percy look up to meet his gaze. 

“You don’t need me to forgive you, or Fred. You need to forgive yourself.”

Percy stared at George, flabbergasted, the tears spilling over in earnest. George smiled a small, sad smile, and pulled Percy into his arms, hugging him tight. Percy clung back, his shoulders shaking. He pulled away after a moment, and smiled shakily at George. He looked as though he had forgotten how to smile, the way it wobbled. George nodded back, a lump in his throat. Enough vulnerability, he thought, and jerked his head back towards the Burrow.

“Let’s get back in, I’m bloody freezing.” Percy laughed a little, a shocked and shaky laugh, and nodded in agreement.

The two trudged back towards the house, and George rolled his eyes as he saw everyone gathered at the back door, trying to see out, clearly spying. His mom shooed everyone away and ushered George and Percy inside, fussing over them, clucking at their shivering bodies, casting warming charms, her eyes shining with tears, a watery smile on her face. She reached up and wrapped her arms around them both, pulling them down into a tight embrace.

“My boys,” she whispered, clutching them tight. “I’m so proud of you both.”

She let them go and bustled them back into the warmth of the rest of the house, settling them near the fire. George let the flames warm his bones, and let his family warm his aching heart. Christmas was hard without Fred, but it wasn’t awful. It wasn't unbearable.

.

The months moved quickly, the shop keeping George busier than it ever had before. Lee sometimes helped out, but he had his own life to attend to, had his own job, his own career. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was never meant to be run by one person, but George couldn’t bear to hire anyone else. Things were better than they had been, but there was still an aching emptiness in his heart, and he was starting to realize there always would be. The place where Fred had been was a wound that would never heal, but George was learning to live with that. His friends helped with that, his family too, and the shop.

The anniversary of the battle was fast approaching, and George found it hard to believe it had almost been two years. He and his friends were planning a repeat of the year before, this time with more firewhiskey, according to Angelina. Angelina had been coming around more lately, and George wasn’t sure what to make of it. He had always thought of Angelina as beautiful, he would have had to have been blind not to, and he had been quietly jealous when Fred had been the one to take her to the Yule Ball all those years ago. He had convinced himself that, were she to have feelings for either of them, it would be Fred. He didn’t know now. He never would.

It felt so trivial, to wonder if Angelina fancied him, so juvenile in the wake of everything that had happened, but George figured Fred would probably be pretty encouraging of it. At the end of one day, after he was done with work, he floo-called Angelina and asked her out for drinks. She agreed. George figured he might as well see where it took him. Maybe it would be nothing, and they would stay friends. But maybe it would be something. George was surprised by how much he couldn’t wait to find out.

.

The anniversary of the battle, of Fred, came and went. George had gone on a few dates with Angelina, and while they had both agreed to be casual, and take things very slow, it was going well. The shop was still a struggle to run on his own, but he was somewhat managing. He still avoided looking in the mirror for too long, still had days when he couldn’t get out of bed, still would turn to say something to Fred only to remember he wasn’t there anymore, but it was better.

It wasn’t moving on, George told himself, because he couldn’t move on from Fred. It was moving forwards, and carrying the memory of Fred with him into the future. He was better than he was two years ago, and in two more years maybe he’d be better still.

Ron wasn’t doing better. He was jumpy, with great bags under his eyes, the dark purple of them standing out in stark contrast to the pale pallor of his skin. George was worried about him, everyone was worried about him, but Ron wouldn’t hear it. Harry was an auror, and Ron was going to follow him down that path, even if it killed him. George sighed. Enough was enough. Ron was his little brother, his only little brother, and if no one else was going to do anything then George would.

He made his way to Ron and Hermione’s flat, taking the time to walk there, going over what he would say in his head. He knocked on the door, and Hermione flung it open, her eyes wide, already shushing him.

“Ron’s sleeping,” she whispered, looking a little wild. “He hasn’t slept for three nights, so I don’t want to wake him up.”

George nodded, and pantomimed zipping his lips. Hermione stood there at the door, and George raised an eyebrow, silently asking if she was going to let him in. She jumped when she realized and swung the door open, ushering George inside. She gestured to the kettle and he nodded in agreement, settling down at their small kitchen table as she set about making them tea.

“How's he doing?” George whispered, once Hermione had finished making the tea, sitting down across from. She frowned, glaring at the mug.

“Poorly,” she responded tersely. “I don’t know what to do, he won’t listen to reason!”

George hummed, and took a sip of tea. Of course he wouldn’t, George thought. It was Ron. He was as stubborn as they came, same as Hermione. The two of them wouldn’t make any sense, George mused, if he didn’t know how much they both loved bickering. Harry didn’t get it, often thought the two of them were just getting on each other’s nerves, but George knew better. It was just how they were. It was fun for them.

They sipped their tea in silence before Hermione glanced at the clock and startled. “I have to get going,” she whispered. “Are you going to wait for him?” George nodded, and Hermione rushed off, summoning her bag and rushing out the door, until it was just George, the only sounds in the whole flat the ticking of the clock and Ron’s soft snores. The snores eventually turned to words, murmured at first, growing louder and louder until they turned into frantic, frightened shouts. George shot up and ran into the bedroom just as Ron launched up into a sitting position, eyes wide open, terrified, a silent scream on his lips. He was breathing harshly and as his eyes met George’s his face crumpled.

“Fred?” he asked, still half-asleep. George felt those words wrap around his throat, squeezing out the air, his heart turning to ice. He swallowed, doing his best to ignore the heat behind his eyes, and he shook his head, slowly walking towards Ron.

“George,” he replied. “It’s George.”

Ron blinked slowly, awareness coming back to him. He processed George’s words, and a horrified look crossed his face.

“George,” he whispered. “I’m sorry,”

“Don’t be,” George replied. He smiled a little, trying to lighten the mood, move past that moment. “Did ickle Ronniekins have a bad dream?”

Ron’s self-recriminatory expression immediately turned into a scowl, and he launched a pillow at George, which George dodged with a laugh.

“Alright, alright,” George said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his expression softening. “You okay?”

Ron shrugged, a little embarrassed at having been caught having a nightmare, as if George didn’t get nightmares all the time too, as if there was anyone these days who didn’t.

“What are you doing here?” Ron asked, changing the subject. George rolled his eyes and patted Ron’s leg.

“Get dressed and I’ll tell you. I’ll go put on a cuppa.”

George stood up and walked out. With a flick of his wand he lazily set the kettle to boil. Hermione had made tea the muggle way, but George couldn’t be bothered, too busy worrying about Ron. George could hear Ron puttering about in his room, and he finished making the tea with some more flicks of his wand, sitting down at the table and waiting for Ron.

“Alright,” Ron said as he shuffled out of his room, his hair sticking up in different directions. George smirked a little at it, and Ron scowled again, patting at it ineffectually.

George took a sip of tea, stalling as he tried to figure out what he was going to say. If he was more like his mother, he would tell Ron how worried he was. If he was more like his dad, he would say something encouraging. Neither of those felt right. He decided to be like Fred. It had always been the easiest skin for him to slip on when he needed to be someone other than himself.

“I have a business proposition for you,” he said, setting his tea down.

“A business proposition?”

“That’s right,” George nodded. “You see, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was never meant to be run by a single proprietor. It’s a bit tricky, experimenting and inventing and running a shop and making sales with just me.”

Ron frowned. “What are you saying?”

“It’s a family business,” George plowed on, “so I thought, well, might as well ask family, right?”

“I have a job,” Ron said, a guarded look crossing his face. George sighed. Being Fred clearly wasn’t working. He took a deep breath, and, against his better judgement, decided to try being George.

“I can’t do it on my own,” he confessed. “I’ve tried, and it’s too much. And I don’t want to hire on just anyone else. This was...it was Freddie’s dream. Freddie’s and mine. And I have to do it without him now, but I can’t do it alone. Please, Ron. At least think about it.”

Ron was quiet for a long moment, looking down into his tea. He hadn’t even touched it. The curls of steam floated up, dispersing in the air as they dissipated into nothing. George was worried Ron might go the same way.

Ron nodded eventually, stiff and still a little bothered, and George figured that was probably as good as he was going to get. He patted Ron on his shoulder before heading out, trying to convey to Ron that he was there. He didn't know if Ron understood.

He hoped Ron would take him up on his offer. Sometimes, even when you didn’t want to, you needed to make a change. Sometimes you needed to accept help, even when it hurt. Sometimes you couldn’t save yourself. There was no shame in letting someone else pull you to shore when you were drowning.

Two weeks later, as George was opening the shop for the day, Ron walked in, a sheepish look on his face.

“That job still open?” he asked, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. George grinned, and swept his arm out in a grand gesture.

“Welcome to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron laughed, and the heaviness in his eyes looked a little lighter.

.

It was easier, with Ron. Hermione had stopped by once and had pulled George into a tight hug, whispering her thanks. Harry stopped by too, likely to show Ron his support. Ron was looking healthier every day, the bags under his eyes fading away.

It turned out that Ron was fairly inventive too, both of them coming up with some grand new products. Fred would be impressed, George was sure of it. Things with Angelina were going well, and they had talked about making it official, telling their friends.

His life was pretty good, George mused. He hadn’t thought it could be without Fred, but George was starting to realize he wasn’t ever really without Fred. When people left, they took the parts of you that belonged to them with them, but at the same time the parts of them that belonged to other people stayed behind.

George locked up the shop, waved goodbye to Ron, and apparated home. He had plans with Angelina the next day, but this night he was on his own. He was starting to be alright with that. Solitude was never something he'd had before.

At the end of the night, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and he looked into the mirror. It was Fred’s face staring back at him, but at the same time it wasn’t. It was his face staring back. He was older than Fred would ever be. That had frightened him once, but he wasn’t scared anymore. He smiled, and his own face smiled back.

“Don’t worry Freddie,” George told his reflection. “I’ll live a good life, for both of us.”

He nodded at his reflection, and for one last moment, Fred nodded back, grinning at him as if in goodbye, before the reflection turned back into George, just George, only George.

George turned away from the mirror, and it didn’t hurt.


End file.
